A word is dead
by layalatania
Summary: He could save her. It only took one word. The air that tangled between her limbs, trapped and bloated between her lungs burned at her core could all dissapear just as quickly. A word was the cost and nothiing more- a word with substance to the dearest of her heart. She was pitiable, niave but unafraid.


There is a man on 34th street. He is sitting outside neither under the sun nor in the safety of the shade. He sips quaintly on his cup, something hard brewed and black. When he peers up as he does every few minutes the striking emptiness of green sitting below heavy black brows glance into the ether, into nothingness; staring blankly upon the distance unperturbed.

With long delicate hands he pushes his satchel below his chair right at the heel of his feet. Like a bothersome child the bag sits closely shifted against glimmering black boots. A cluttered table irks him; he is content glowering at the steaming cup of coffee alone and utterly small on such a large empty table.

A coat draped so precariously against his chair flutters only a hairs width away from the speckled cheery cobblestone. A wind strong and yet flimsy shakes upon the earth; sputtering long strings of black hair and causing the firm long coat to dance in the breeze. The ground concrete does not move though the satchel below seems to buzz against the force shaking so terribly beside his slender pants covered legs.

He looks forward once again, eyes conglomerating at the nothingness there beyond tall angular buildings. Slowly soot lips so strange on striking alabaster purse together. Though the flicker of distaste is minimal his melancholy serves to unnerve the few gathering pigeons to take upon the wind again. The sweet pastry crumbs left by the school children or shaken from the hands of the aged are not near enough to remain in the presence of such abyss.

Cocking their head at each other in flustered squawking; the birds fall into unison opening up their large opalescent wings. Much like currents of the sea they float and flutter where ever their wings guide, some bold or misguided aviate under, above and around the ghostly patron who has not stared down intently enough at his own brew to notice the creatures retreat.

For the stern and unconcerned man the table holds more interest than the babe, just a meddlesome chick whose wings not nearly strong enough nor graceful to keep from stumbling into the long shaped satchel shivering in the wind.

It topples over; thousands upon thousands of papers paint the air.

Hurried to take the pattern of its elder and much afraid of the creature residing at the post table; the little chick does not daunt upon the turned over messenger bag

Unwary of the papers skirting such hard speckled ground or the frightened birds gathering elsewhere, the man remains unmoved. Too taught in his own solitude, comfortable emptiness he is unable to fault course and retrieve his life's work.

"_Monsieur_!" Her little voice carries in the harsh wind. She much like a tumbling babe; a small flustered pigeon tries her earnest to retrieve the many, many pages. Running from the inside of the little patisserie, just a customer stopping for a bite of delicious sweets sees the strangest sight within her timber eyes. Delicate hands try to navigate the open skies reaching far beyond her height in order to grab the pieces of parchment so daring to run away from their master.

Their owner does not fret nor takes care to remove himself from his chair prolonged in watching the sun bloated upon the horizon run along the metal carvings of his table.

She is unsure of his behavior but her blithe heart is eager to please. She does not know much of culture _here, _new herself to this enchanting worldbut is determined to give a little cheer to each denizen she may correspond with. Especially the strange man who has more interest studying teacups than fretting upon his flying papers.

Huffing at the many gathered papers trapped between her fingers she shuffles towards the stately dressed man turned so elegantly within his chair staring into the ether. Pushing them gently away from her bosom she hopes the man is not displeased at the squishing and dismantling of his documents (despite him taking no heed in their recovery).

"_Pardon_," Her voice is meek so uncharacteristic of the loud blithering foreigners who usually tour this part of Paris. How strange she appears with such dainty features, such warm timber eyes under a curtain of red mane.

"_Monsieur_? You have dropped your papers. _Vos papiers?_" She asked, trapping the papers to her chest in unease. He did not look at her. His gaze trapped somewhere far beyond the present. He does not see her she is merely a shadow beside him hidden from his eyes. He may hear her voice sweet as pomegranate tickling the inside of his ears, feel the warmth of her skin- but without sight, without substance she is nothing.

Trepidation stems from her fingers the warmth from peach hands trails minutely against the small patch of skin unhidden with the space of his shiny cuff-links and silver wrist watch. The man does not move at her touch. She is nothing.

Fear languid gathers at her feet and like sore festers slowly upwards upon her body until settling right below the pit of her heart.

She is afraid.

Like molasses she slips the skew of papers below one of his arms resting against the table. She frets as her stomach flutters. He turns, black hairs tumbling into his vision. He doesn't like his table messy. With an uncaring reach the ebony haired creatures draws his arms back, the parchments cradled their below no longer have destination.

Sultry with an air of despair he turns like the many times before collecting the warm fervent rays shroud over his skin. How strange, he thinks. He recalled just moments prior the sun being on the east and yet somehow faces him on his northern side. Had it always been so warm?

The papers flutter from underneath his arms taking wind once again shuffling to and fro within the breeze. Fanning out they make a curtain large enough to keep the dead pools of green from consuming the small and brazen child and yet faint enough for large curious brown's to note the minute pursing of black wool lips matched against scrunching brows.

So dead and unlike anything she had ever seen. His eyes blank follow the fluttering of paper if only for a moment. The curiosity within them withers to disinterest. Slow and steady glass fingers wrap around porcelain sipping at the blackest of coffees as eyes stare into the ether past the haunting of red twirling in the wind.

Stepping back inside Orihime sucks in a shudder. She is leaning against the full framed window unaware had the man so consumed in nothingness stir would see her lovely figure smooched awkwardly on the window pane. Looking around the woman is back in the bakery; why exactly had she stalked back into the rather dour and black antique looking shop? Her embarrassment like many times before seemed to cloud her judgment.

Her mind still at the apex of the antique bakery and her jet lag from just flying into the country seeped all argument out of her conscious.

Sparing a glance she tried to hold in her gasp at the unsympathetic mantle decorated with hunted sea-life. It was oddly beautiful and just as disturbing, how truly real the bright luminescent jellyfish looked dancing on the walls. The sparkly tortoise shell cushioning a trophy of a statute serpent sat right below a dimly lit furnace. Despite the mid-morning heat the room kept a chilling temperature making the fire appear as only decorum.

The bakery was strange as much as the whole street front. Looking around at the old and untimely little shop Orihime wouldn't know what drew her back into the dreary upside down place, nor why she had taken care to cradle a single sheet still held tight to her bosom. Why had one piece of parchment fermented upon her hand unwilling to let and glow and fly away with its brethren.

Curious the red head began to peak at the paper but something, more specifically a ghosting laugh halted her interest. Glancing up under the Cheshire smile of a lovely though somewhat provocative looking woman Orihime felt a flood of dread pool towards her stomach.

In those vermillion eyes, playful yet cold lurked a predator. "Is that Ulquiorra's? One should always be careful when it comes to that man." She chuckled.

"_Ah Madame! _I sincerely tried to give it back! He- he… just wouldn't take it back- and then… he… and!"

"Calm down." Grinning, "You shouldn't worry about him. He does that every Tuesday just about." The rather tall and endowed woman spoke leaning against a smooth golden bar. Something of her mossy eyes framed along risqué blonde hair caused the young woman to stare at the brown Parisian. Voice deep, grainy vibrated against each ocean blue corner. "He really can't help himself and I too much don't mind the mess."

Thinking back to the utter chaos the papers the red haired youth just couldn't imagine the type to be considerate, almost enthralled at such a scene.

"_Êtes-vous le propriétaire_? The girl asked incredulously wondering just what type of business owner would allow their customers to taint and defile their bakery- the outside of their property in millions of paper. Although creative, she imagined that the other shop owners weren't kind of the parade of parchment's landing on their lots.

The woman smiled broadly something deadly and unusual as if it should never be seen. "Yes and no."Pulling a long bar stool towards her she slid into the seat patting the one on the other side for the outsider to inhabit. Not wishing to encourage a faux pas Orihime carefully walked towards the whicker seat. Much like a cow to the slaughter she fell uncomfortably in her chair unusually fearful of the woman beside her.

Sucking in a breath the young woman looked around her seat. How strange they must look, she mused. Sitting in chairs tucked by the bar and yet still boldly aligned within the large store front window pane. Orihime in her creativity imagined they must look like manikins rather busty ones surely, she hunched forward as the other raveled her fingers over her mouth hiding her large shark-like smile.

Together they stared beyond their reflection at the slender man who took no notice of the world bustling beyond him.

"_Mon mari…_"

"Eh?" The red head still oddly consumed found the notion to answer.

She laughed. Viridian eyes twinkling mischievously, brown lips more than likely pulled into that smile that gave the poor guest shivers. "My husband, he and I both own the shop. Though when he isn't sleeping as he always is, he is busy managing the pub next door." Orihime turned to the woman studying the sharp sloping of her jaw just the way it sat upon her face powerful and teasing commanded the young girl's attention.

You own two businesses in the middle of Paris?" The woman's laughter tinkled and unlike a belle or a sweet mademoiselle gentle and lovely; her voice rung low and powerful like a swinging church bell sullen; callous and old.

"Little girl you'd be surprised what you can do once you sell your soul to the devil." The red head shrieked almost tumbling out of her seat. The coals of the woman's voice shivered against her spine. The nonchalant manner when speaking of such a vile corruption stirred her poor soul. Seeming to enjoy the way the little girl fidgeted the elder appeared closely her eyes memorizing under the dim light. They squinted in delight though the rest of her face stayed quite passive, "What a silly creature you are."

"Don't be such a tease Harribel." Those eyes inked in green glinted with a merciful type of glee as they stole a glance at the intruder.

Twisting from her chair the woman held in her grin. Voice low with a natural sultriness questioned the man. "Ulquiorra, I see you are done scattering nonsense upon the streets of Paris. Have you saved me a letter?"

Deep and vibrating the surprisingly short man opened his mouth his nose white like snow scrunched up in the process. "I have something for you." He pulled his satchel taking out a nice white sheet of paper along from deep in the blackness of the bag a shapely pen.

Passing behind the girl still squared in her chair Harribel leaned on the bar once again this time faced away from the busy streets staring into the black lumber pieces of wall housing her bakery. "Will it be something I'm found of? It's been quite a while since you've given me anything to smile at." Said the woman.

Crossing over to the other spot closer to the thoughtful woman, his eyes did not wonder still dispassionately gathered at the pastry owner. "You know _it_ does not work in such ways. You of all people should understand the consequences of being fickle or trite." At the last words his mouth squished into an inaudible frown.

She is smiling though Orihime cannot see; just the bare of her shoulders and the pull of her naked back uncovered by her low cut blouse tinkle with that heavy laughter she always releases. The Parisian woman to stately to sigh instead traveled long heavy fingers through a tangle of blond curls and pulled them above her head in a false fascination. "You know I am much aware of that. But It is too much fun to get a rise out of you." Broad fingers tinkered with the glass coverings of a cake display, "It can't helped Ulquiorra, friends as dear as one another-"

"We are not friends," Interrupted the pale figure.

"Sometimes," Began the woman digging her elbows into the wooden bar, "Days like this I remember when you were just a little boy. So frail so small. Were we not friends then, we once shared the same blankets; we once shared the same fears."

"I fear nothing."

Harribel turned head staring at the antique clock hammered crookedly upon the wall. "Don't worry Ulquiorra I'm well aware of that." A long silence seemed to stir between the owner of the bakery, the strangely empty man and paltry red head still reluctant to climb out of her chair and hide herself in the many crowds along the store front. "We are just two children lucky enough to fall under the same benefactor."

Behind her; unknown to the poor little passer-bye much too kind and much too subservient to take flight a contract began. Had she been born a bird or some other creature of innate sense maybe, possibly could she have saved her soul.

It was much too late for that now.

"Are you afraid?" She believed him to be talking to Harribel and so did not answer. "How pitiful." Turning she met his eyes malaise and cold glowering deeply into her very being.


End file.
